


i did a terrible thing with a sober mind

by vanimiel



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Headcanon, fear's kinda crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 21:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanimiel/pseuds/vanimiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brazil, the eighteenth of May, 1930. It's a week before your sixteenth birthday, and you're coming home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i did a terrible thing with a sober mind

The Depression has done a lot of things to a lot of people, and to you it loaded even more stress and pressure and loneliness on your shoulders. Pushed you even farther away than you already were.

So you left.

Well, not really. The jungle is your backyard. You just went further in it than you usually do for longer than you usually do. 

It was extraordinary. The most fun you’ve ever had. You carried only your crossbow and the clothes on your back, but damn, you felt more at home with all the spiders and snakes and trees than the home you were born into.

You needed to return, eventually, though. You knew this.

There’s a lot of space in the jungle. Room for hope to renew, one last time. And it does— there’s a chance, a bright, glimmering chance, and you see it with those bright brown eyes of yours and seize it with all your might.

Naive? Maybe. But you don’t care— there’s a chance, damnit. A _chance._

You make a scene of arriving, slamming open the door and ensuring your steps sound as heavy as possible; a difficult feat, being skinny and bony and you can even kind of see your ribs but you manage to do it and you’re proud of yourself. You’re proud. They should be, too, and the grin that splits your face hurts but it’s okay, it’s okay, because they’ll be happy, they’ll be relieved, they’ll be oh my God, we was so worried about you, Inácio; we had no idea where you went or even if you were alive and thank God you’re back now, I’m sorry, we’re so proud, we love you, we love you.

The announcement leaves your lips, firm and smooth and bold. It even sounds like your voice has deepened a bit.

You’re home. 

Your eyes fall on your mother, in the kitchen, and you father, in the dining room.

They do nothing.

You know they know you’re there; you saw them jump, startled by the noise, startled by you. 

The sound your throat makes when you swallow is louder than you remember. Hope cracks. Your smile wanes. The light in your eyes dull.

You try again.

I’m home, I’m home! Aren’t you glad to see me? Desperate. 

Your mother gives you a passing glance. An empty smile.

Weren’t you worried? A voice crack.

Your father rises, grumbling something under his breath that sounds a little too much like “damn, he came back.”

For a moment, for a hot, freezing moment you swear on the earth and your life and those who came before you that you are going to cry. You swear, you swear you swear you swear, because your eyes are burning and your throat is closed and you can’t breathe but

something

breaks.

Something breaks.

You don’t know why or how or what but you know that this thing is inside of you and you know that it just completely _shattered._

The sadness— the debilitating, crushing, overbearing sadness— flickers out as if it had been nothing. In an even quicker moment, you forget it was ever even there. 

All that’s left is the rage. The pent-up rage and frustration and violence and loneliness is all that’s left, and it devours you whole. Your mind is no longer your own; you’ve given it up to the emotion. 

You have only one objective:

Release.

And release you do.

You don’t know what finds itself in your hand— it’s long and heavy and fits so so nicely into your palm, so you really you could not care less— but you bring it above and down and it makes contact with something hard and you hear a scream. 

It’s not yours. Too deep, too masculine, too unfamiliar. It won’t stop, not completely; it has breaks and groans and please stop oh God please please in between but it does not fucking _stop,_ which is okay. It’s okay.

Because the sound is the most pleasing thing you’ve ever heard.

You grin. Maliciously. Frighteningly.

Scream for me more, jackass, you hear yourself hiss. Scream for every fucking second you didn’t tell me you loved me.

You hear another scream. Feminine, wailing, _heavenly._ It’s begging you, too, and something tries to pull you away and no you fucking don’t, a change in direction and good use of momentum ensures your position.

You hear yourself laugh, and crack your neck.

You’re high. The sweet scent of blood and the harmony of screaming and oh the fear the beautiful gorgeous fear in their eyes combine to create the most potent drug and you cannot get enough.

Shouting abuse helps you get off, too. Just like they always did. Have a taste of your own fucking medicine, you good for nothing bastard. I hope you burn eternally in Hell, you ugly fucking cunt. 

Being unloved isn’t so nice, now, is it? 

Thought not.

It takes more than a few seconds for you to register that they’re not moving anymore. You’re beating corpses, you realize, and disappointment crosses your face. That’s all? Oh well.

You rise, dropping your weapon and wiping your bloodied hands on your bloodied pants, slowly sobering and slowly realizing that this was not something you should have enjoyed.

You should not feel proud. You should not feel overjoyed, excited, relieved. And yet you do.

The gravity of the situation finally settles its full weight on your chest.

You search deep, everywhere, anywhere, for the guilt and regret that should be overtaking you entirely. You search and you force, trying to make yourself feel remorseful because holy fucking Hell, you just brutally murdered your own fucking parents.

Panic rises, breathing labored and mind in chaos; oh my God, I’m a psychopath. I’m a psychopath, I like killing, I get off to it, oh my God, oh my God.

The thought of beating yourself to death crosses your mind but once when a voice speaks.

It’s quiet, soft, but it pacifies your thoughts with three simple words.

They deserved it.

One more slow breath.

They deserved it. They were worth less than the dirt that covers your feet. How they treated you was inexcusable, pathetic, shameful. They were nothing more than animals and they deserved every strike that came down upon them.

Your breath evens, because it’s true. You would never just go out and kill for no reason. Sure, you enjoyed it, but you had a damned good reason to.

You roll your shoulders and step over the bodies to go clean yourself up. Can’t go anywhere looking like you just committed two counts of first degree murder. 

You wash, change your clothes, gather various necessities and stuff them in a bag. There’s not much money, but you take what you find. 

Deciding what to do with your rosary is a challenge. Keeping it seems almost like an insult; your lack of remorse over your recent actions make you feel unworthy. But there’s a sense of comfort and hope, even, that comes with it and God.

Maybe not the church itself. 

But God.

You slip it back around your neck, tucking it into your shirt.

The bodies are left where they are to rot. A nice present for when one of your siblings arrives to visit.

You feel at some sort of eerie peace, and begin to make your way eastward to the coast.


End file.
